


Yesterday my life was in ruin...

by Reading_By_Torchlight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Terminal Illnesses, There will be fluff I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reading_By_Torchlight/pseuds/Reading_By_Torchlight
Summary: When Brian, Roger and John hear the news of their dear friend's passing, it seems like everything is slowly falling to pieces. Unable to be confronted with anything that might remind them of before, they push each other away. After a terrible incident, they realise that they need each other more than ever. Together, the three men remember the old times when they were nothing but skint uni students with big dreams. Because sometimes a family is an insomniac physicist, an excentric art student, a dentist-to-be and a sarcastic engineer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings,  
> I was inspired to write this fic when I was listening to "No One but You" on repeat (apparently I like to torture myself lol). 
> 
> Additional warnings: mild language, in the later part of the chapter there are mentions of self-harm, self-hate and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> It will get less angsty when we get to the flashbacks!  
> Anyroad, I hope you enjoy!  
> P.S. I've not yet figured out how to properly edit everything (put the text in cursive,...)I'm going to fix it as soon as I've figured out how. <3

November 1991

When he awoke, he could feel the cold creep right into his bloody bones. He’d have loved to pull the blanket closer around his shoulders and to ignore the cold November morning for just a bit longer. Alas, he had to get up. The baby crying his heart out in the next room over didn’t help him enjoy a few more moments in bed either.  
He cracked his knuckles and shuddered as the blanket fell from his shoulders and exposed his bare arms to the cold. The crying next door grew more desperate.

“Rog, could you..?” the heap of blond hair next to him mumbled.  
Sighing, he pressed a kiss to Debbie’s shoulder and made for the door. When he got up, he only made a half-arsed attempt at suppressing a hiss as his joints made an awful cracking noise.

“Well, that’s what ya get when you’re an old man, Roggie-boy” he muttered to himself. His shivering continued as he plodded towards his son’s room, clad in nothing but his pants, sporting goose pimples on his bare arms and legs. The weather had grown warmer over the last few days but with England being the same pissy little island as always, it was no surprise to hear the rain pouring on the windows again and to see the thermometer barely reach anything above zero. Not that Roger was in much of a mood for nice weather anyway. If it were up to him it could come pissing down the whole month for all it wanted. Usually, he’d be the first to bitch about the weather but the thought of sunshine on his skin _did _remind him of things he absolutely didn’t want to think about right now.__

__Nice weather –to Roger at least- meant not being able to find your swimming shorts because a certain someone had nicked them again. It meant chasing after your friends into Brighton’s cool waves, melodic laughter ringing in your ears and frizzy dark curls clouding your vision as you were ducked by long, bony fingers, nails smooth with white varnish. It meant sprawling on a large towel on the beach whilst complaining about the smell of some cheese butty containing an obnoxious combination of Somerset Cheddar and Blue Stilton and promptly having the offending item shoved into your face, followed by the sound of a cheeky laugh. It meant listening to Jimi Hendrix on an old transistor radio your handy mate had saved from a container full of electronical waste at uni. It meant watching a stick-thin lad with raven hair and tan skin dance excitedly on white pebbles in nothing but a pair of (stolen) swimming briefs, loudly singing a song in a foreign-sounding language and flashing you a wide grin, all teeth and gleaming eyes. It meant laying your head in a complaining friend’s lap (whose bitching you couldn’t take seriously because he tended to look like a soaked cocker spaniel with his long brown hair all wet from a swim), listening to the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, drumming a beat on your thighs and bothering your mate trying to sing by shoving your dirty feet in his face and thus making him giggle constantly. It meant staying until the sun had set and your ever-cautious friend began to worry about you and the others catching a cold, guiding you towards the train station and pointing out various constellations in the starry firmament up above._ _

__As he looked outside and followed the rain drops making their way across the glass, he realised –not for the first time- that Brighton beach was gone forever. Because they weren’t the young lads they used to be. Because Brian wouldn’t show his wide smile and duck him underwater anymore but instead his eyes were empty and he had pushed himself beneath the dark surface where Roger wasn’t able to reach him. Because now Deacy didn't bother anybody with his cheese sandwiches but didn’t seem to eat at all anymore and never talked more than need be. Because Fred was too weak to put on swimming briefs by himself or even get through a whole verse of his Parsi childhood songs._ _

__He wondered when he’d started having thoughts like these. He’d never been one for all that sentimental tosh - that used to be more Brian’s thing._ _

__“Roger! Get Rufus!” Debbie cried from the bedroom and Roger had to ask himself how long he’d been staring out into the cold.  
When he entered the child’s room, Rufus was already standing upright in his cot, holding onto the bars and sobbing miserably, only stopping once he was cradled in his father’s arms._ _

__“Well then, lad, let’s go get you brekkie, shall we?” Roger whispered and stumbled back into the kitchen with two arms full of a suddenly contented baby boy, blue eyes watching him steadily.  
When the little tyke was fed and tucked into his mother’s arms, Roger wandered through the house aimlessly before settling for sprawling on the sofa and turning on the telly. _ _

__“A very good morning to you from Kirstie and me. The time is now eight o’clock, you’re watching the BBC Breakfast News,” a man’s voice, which couldn’t have been posher if he tried, informed him as the familiar design of the BBC clock was shown. While the news presenter talked of an uncertain situation in the east, a robbery in Kensington and Lady Di being horded by the press yet again, his mind drifted off again, wondering where the years had gone. Because of the bloody weather it was still sort of darkish outside and he could see his own reflection in the window._ _

__He almost didn’t recognise the man looking back at him. Tired blue eyes sat deep in his pale face, surrounded by under-eye circles the size of a 45 and dirty glasses he couldn’t be arsed to clean. The usually evenly bleached light blond on his head was broken by an odd mix of grey and his natural dark blond, and according to the stubbly patches on his chin and cheeks it had to have been quite some time since he’d last shaved. He’d certainly grown older over the last few months than he had in all of the 42 years before. They all had. He felt like they’d broken a promise, like they’d somehow betrayed him when they’d sworn that they’d take care of themselves and not drown in their own sorrow and worry._ _

__“…flamboyant singer of the rock group Queen has confirmed in a statement that he does indeed suffer from AIDS“, the news presenter said and Roger’s head jerked back to the telly, eyes wide. He hadn’t known that Fred had decided to go to the press. “…no wonder that Mr Mercury should also fall victim to the disease with his promiscuous lifestyle and all those infamous parties. Cases like these should serve as a warning for England and her youth to stay on the right path and –“_ _

__Roger pushed the “power off” button vehemently, jumped off the sofa and threw the remote against the box with all his might.  
“Fucking wankers!” he cried, balling his hands into fists so hard he could feel the skin bow-taut against his white knuckles._ _

__The rest of the day was spent in his little recording studio in the basement. Behind locked doors, where nobody could hear him and he could hear nobody, he sat where he’d been sitting for more than twenty years now; on a small metal stool behind his little fortress made of a snare, a bass drum, his toms, a hi-hat and cymbals. There were broken sticks lying all around him, his knuckles and the drum skins were covered in blood and his cheek hurt like hell where he’d been biting down on it aggressively. If only he played louder, harder, faster, maybe he could forget that the press were such a bloody bunch of tossers, horny for the latest scandals, or that one of his best friends was dying or that…_ _

__The coppery taste of blood blended with that of salty water and he hit the hi-hat as hard as he could._ _

__When tea had finally come around, he emerged from the basement, threw on a Doctor Who jumper that had probably once been John’s a good fifteen or so years ago and searched the house for some makeshift dressing for his knuckles.  
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat something before you’re off, love?” Debbie said, walking up behind him and snaking her arms around his waist. “You haven’t eaten anything all day”_ _

__He shook his head and pecked her cheek, before muttering that he had best get going and that he loved her. Then, he reached behind her to grab his prescription sunglasses from the counter and left. When he stepped outside, dusk had already set in. The rain had stopped pouring but a cutting wind swept through the neighbourhood and left him feeling just as downhearted._ _

__Roger drove in silence. He couldn’t remember when he’d last listened to music consciously. It felt like a bloody long time ago.  
As he was cruising down the streets he counted down the roads he’d have to pass until he reached Garden Lodge. He longed to see him again but he dreaded it all the same. What would he look like? Would he be awake? What if there came a day when he wouldn’t recognise him anymore and nothing would be left of the boy he’d sold outlandish clothing with at Kensington Market?_ _

__He was now just three streets away. If he endeavoured to work his imagination just a little, he could almost envision what it would be like to open the door to reveal an over-enthusiastic man with a head of raven hair pulling him in for a hug, already in his brightly-coloured dressing gown. “Come on in, Roger-darling!” he’d cry happily. “It’s freezing outside. I’ll have Feebie fetch you a nice, hot cuppa and then you gotta listen to that piano piece I’ve thought up this morning. I’m sure Maggie would want to add one of his dreadfully long solos to it but you’re gonna defend me, aren’t you? Oh, and you have to tell me what you think of this lovely suit I’ve brought as a Christmas present for Deacy. That poor boy’s got no taste in clothing whatsoever…”_ _

__Roger let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes behind his dark glasses. He was now just two streets away. In that moment, there was a sharp ringing noise that pulled him back down to reality. Keeping his eyes on the road, he blindly grabbed for the receiver of his car phone._ _

__“Roger?” something about the tone in the other man’s voice sounded terribly off but Roger couldn’t pinpoint the issue and, honestly, didn’t want to, either.  
“Peter, listen, I’m two streets away from Garden Lodge, be with ya in five-ish!”  
“Roger, wait” Peter said and Roger could definitely hear Freddie’s PA catching his breath. Had he been crying? “Roger, you…you needn’t…you needn’t bother coming. He…Freddie…he’s gone, I…” 

__Roger unconsciously slammed his foot on the brake and was propelled forward into the steering wheel of his red Mazda. His limbs were shaking uncontrollably; surely he had to have misheard Peter._ _

__“Roger, … are you there?” Phoebe questioned and Roger could now definitely make out muffled sobs in the background. This had to be a bleeding joke! It couldn’t be…it just wasn’t possible. Not lovely, thoughtful, mesmerising Fred with his mischievous smile and warm hugs! Not Fred, who had enough energy to take on anything and anyone that came in between him and his husband, his music, his boys!_ _

__Not their Freddie!_ _

__By now he was choking back the tears, shaking his head violently and pressing a clammy hand against his mouth in an attempt not to scream at the God he didn’t believe in._ _

__“I’m sorry…Peter…gotta…gotta ring off. Tell Jim I’m…I’m sorry!” he managed before slamming down the receiver.  
And so he sat in his car, parked in the middle of the abandoned road, screaming and crying and pulling his hair and desperately wishing he were lying at Brighton beach with his three boys dozing beside him. _ _

***

__Brian was sitting on the balcony, watching the evening sky. When things were moving too fast around him he’d usually have at least the stars to ground him. Not today. The fog was hanging low in the trees and as much as he stared at the sky up above, he was denied the soothing sight of Cassiopeia and the Plough. It was freezing outside but he didn’t shiver, instead he embraced the cold in hope of it taking his mind off the heaviness that had filled his whole body._ _

__His fingers grazed the tips of the fresh dressing that Anita had gently wrapped around his left wrist after she’d carefully kissed that disgusting huge gash that adorned his bony arm there, looking like a scowling mouth and reminding him every day of that promise he’d broken. _I want you to take care of yourself when I can’t look out for you anymore, Maggie-dear._ _I know it’s hard but, darling, please, please – promise me you’ll look after yourself, dearie._ _For me.___

____It almost made him feel physically ill to think of how he’d looked Fred in the eyes and promised him to do exactly that and then an hour later go home and neglect it…but still. His nails trailed along his arm where the skin was oh-so-thin and almost no flesh was to be found underneath. How easy it would be…! His fingernails dug into his forearm, through the skin, and he watched, weirdly detached, as a single drop of dark red gushed out._ _ _ _

____But it was to no avail. He could still see Freddie’s miserable brown eyes, silently begging him to stop. And Brian wanted it to stop. He sometimes wanted everything to stop._ _ _ _

____He could hear footsteps walking up behind him, the rustling of clothing._ _ _ _

______“How are you, sweetheart?”  
_“How are you, darling?” ___  
“I’m fine, Anita”  
_“I don’t know, Fred” ___

________November 1971 Brian had been sitting beside the window all day. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Sometimes he just couldn’t will himself to get up. He imagined it, sending an order to his brain, telling it to move his legs. But he never could go through with it in those moments. All he could do was sit by the window, look at the stars and hope to be comforted by the fact that someday all of this –including him- would be space dust as well._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Fred sat down beside him, wordlessly, and rested his head on Brian’s shoulder, almost crawling into his curls. They were alone. Roger would only return from his shift at the stall in a few hours’ time and Deacy was probably still at uni, working his fingers to the bone in the engineering labs._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Tell me about the stars, darling!” Freddie demanded, looking at him with the most caring expression in his warm eyes._  
“Which one?” he asked then, unable to muster the strength to look up again.  
“This one,” Freddie said and pointed in a vague direction before extending an arm to wipe away the tears Brian hadn’t realised he’d cried. And so he did. He told Freddie of Cassiopeia – the first constellation his Da had ever shown him, which could be seen perfectly this time of the year - he told him of asteroids and NASA missions, of space dust, of Mars, Mercury, and the moon. 

_________________“That’s you,” Fred said, taking his left hand in his._  
Brian only looked at him questioningly.  
“You’re the moon,” Freddie repeated. “You’re always there - a constant presence- sometimes you put more of yourself out there than other times, you’re calm and vital to our lives. And, you alight the whole night with your smile!” 

_________That was when Brian couldn’t help said smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to tell Freddie that that was a whole load of rubbish and that the moon itself didn’t alight anything but the smile wouldn’t fade. Instead, he looked down at their joined hands. White intertwined with black. The moon, embedded in the vast, enigmatic dark of outer space. He rested his head atop Freddie’s. For now, he had a feeling he should be doing alright._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Sweetheart, there’s a phone call for you,” Anita said, as she came to stand behind him, bending down and nuzzling into his curls. “It’s Roger”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________When Brian sat down by the telephone on the wall and pressed the receiver to the side of his head, he could make out precisely nothing. There were unfathomable noises on the other end of the line and fractions of words that made no sense at all. But there was no doubt it was Roger on the blower, his high voice would have given him away any day._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Roger?” Brian asked after a minute or so. He was beginning to worry about the drummer and started fiddling with the phone cord._  
“…Brimi…?” Roger finally managed and Brian practically jumped off his seat. The last time he’d called him that, they had been mere boys! Another muffled noise on the line. Brian couldn’t shake the horrible suspicion that Roger was crying.  
“Rog, what’s wrong?” Brian asked, more desperate now, hating himself for the fact that his voice was shaking.  
“Come…come get me?” Roger whispered and let out a sob.  
“Where are you, Rog?” Brian said, already reaching for his coat that was hanging on a rack opposite the phone.  
“Crom…Cromwell Crescent,” Roger cried. 

__________As Brian drove through the night, he readied himself for what was to come. He knew it. Deep down, he knew it. But somehow it still came as a shock to see Roger sitting on the pavement next to his car, tear-streaked face and mumbling incoherently.  
When Brian stepped closer, Roger looked up and Brian could see a thousand emotions flash over his face; pain, hurt, betrayal, rage and anger. Oh Roger, always free to read for everyone like an open book!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A second later, Brian had two arms full of blond, a wild head of hair tucked underneath his chin and snot and tears leaving a wet trace on his chest. And Brian knew. Roger didn’t have to tell him. He knew. He didn’t know how long they stood there. The night was pitch-black when Roger pulled back, sniffling. The fog had cleared. Above them, Cassiopeia shone her light upon them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They left Roger’s car on the side of the road, they’d come get it tomorrow. There was no arguing about where they should be headed; there was only one place for them to go._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They drove in silence, the only sound being Roger’s wailing as he rocked back and forth on the passenger’s seat. Brian must have cried, too because after a while his cheeks were wet and he had to swipe a hand across his face to see the road. He took a glance at his fingers as he did and he wished they were shorter than his, tanner and with chipped black varnish adorning the nails. He wished somebody would ask him to tell them about the stars._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Next to him, Roger let out a high-pitched scream._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, lovies!  
> I'm terribly sorry this took so long!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: some slurs, period typical homophobia and mentions of self harm and depression
> 
> I'd just like to clarify that I am writing some of this based on my own experiences and those of people I know. Of course, everyone experiences these things in a different way as mental illnesses are very much as individual as the person suffering from them.  
> Also, some of the writing telling the story from a person's POV can be clouded by said illness or grief and doesn't necessarily reflect my own opinion.
> 
>  
> 
> Whilst this fic is certainly inspired by real events, it is still purely fictional. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves, loves!<33

It was loud in the living room. Laura and Michael were arguing about whether they should watch _Ghostbusters II_ or Disney’s _The little Mermaid_ and little Joshua was sitting at John’s feet on the floor, throwing coloured pencils about and begging his dad to take a look at his latest masterpiece. From the room next door, he could hear Robert, who was obviously way too grown-up to be spending the evening with his family, blasting “We can’t be stopped” by the Geto Boys.

“Yeah it’s time to do it like a G.O. once again

You know in 1989, we knocked on the door

In 1990, we beat on the door

Now it’s 1991, we finna kick this muthafucka in!”

John rested his head in his hand, sighing and wondering if it really was God’s plan to have him spend his whole life in a perpetual state of being done.

“For Christ’s sake, Robert, please turn this noise down!” he could hear Ronnie, pounding on the lad’s door, before her head turned around the corner, face utterly exasperated, wringing her hands above her head. She let herself fall next to him onto the sofa.

“Oh God, Johnny, were we like that, too, once?” she sighed against his shoulder.

John shrugged. He’d never been one to judge other people’s tastes in music. Or, maybe he had. But he had come to understand that doing so silently was much more effective.

“Dad, Dad, look what I made!” Joshua screeched excitedly, waving a piece of paper in front of his face.

“Well then, let’s see,” John muttered and put on a smile for his youngest. Laura and Michael were still at each other’s throats in the background, their screams accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the VCR being turned on and off, depending on who’d gotten a hold of the remote at the moment.

“See, I drew all our family!” little Joshua said proudly, trying to catch his father’s attention, as his small hands pointed towards a collection of colourful stick-figures on the paper. “Here’s Mummy, you, Mickey, Laura, Rob, Grandma, Grandpa, Pops, Granny, Uncle Rog, Uncle Bri and Uncle Freddie!”

John stared down at his son’s drawing. Brian more or less looked like a dark cloud with legs and John had to chuckle a bit.

“Well done, mate. It does look quite realistic,” he praised, pointing to the guitarist and snorting a little.

Joshua beamed up at him and he put his hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his hair fondly.

“Come on, dearie, let’s get you to bed,” Ronnie said, getting up and ignoring the little boy’s protestations.

“Listen to your mum, young man,” John said, trying and failing to sound stern. “You’ve gotta be up and kicking for school tomorrow!”

It was then that the doorbell rang and Joshua seized the opportunity to escape sleep for just a bit longer.

“I’ll go get it!” he cried, running for the door. John was confused. He was used to his never-changing routine, he liked it that way. Usually, there would be nobody banging on his door at half past eight on a Sunday night. It had been that way since he’d moved out of that tiny mouldy uni room he’d shared with an insomniac physicist, an art student who spent his evenings looking at street artists’ work in Camden Town and a biology student with a liking for parties and no sense of time whatsoever. He looked at Ronnie, who only shrugged at him and they followed their son into the hallway.

He could hear Joshua opening the door and then…

“Uncle Bri! Uncle Rog!”

Indeed, he could make out the familiar silhouettes of two men against the night sky outside, hunched over and clinging to each other.

John stopped dead in his tracks, unable to take one step forward. This wasn’t right. Why would they show up at his place without phoning before? (Bloody useless, asking that question. John knew why.)

“Look, look, I painted all of us! I even drew you a guitar, Uncle Bri, and Uncle Freddie’s got a mic!” Joshua babbled on, seemingly unaware of all that was going on. Roger whimpered at the little boy’s words, Brian kept staring straight ahead.

“C’mon, dearie, we best leave your uncles and Dad alone for a bit,” Ronnie whispered, pulling a complaining Joshua out of the room and touching John’s shoulder sympathetically on her way out.

Roger let out a sob, almost collapsing into Brian.

And then John ran over the threshold, into the cold and Brian’s long arms. He was pulled in tightly, his face uncomfortably squished against Roger’s, the drummer’s glasses digging into his temples. It was freezing outside but he didn’t notice. He could hear Roger wailing mere inches next to his ear, fighting –as always- his way through a break-down. There was no sound coming from Brian but his chest beneath John’s head and his long legs that kept the tree of them upright were quivering as he wept silently into their hair. John’s own eyes were dry as could be. Even with his friends trembling beside him, the scenario seemed way too surreal. In another minute or so he’d be pulled back to reality by the ringing alarm clock and he’d pull Veronica closer for another minute of sleep before they’d have to get the kids ready for school.

But then, Brian’s legs gave in and as he felt himself fall towards the floor with Brian slumped against the doorframe -his arms thrown around Roger and John in realisation that, all of a sudden, he was the oldest now- John couldn’t help the wail that escaped his throat. Roger’s hand made a grip for the back of his shirt in an attempt to hold onto something, anything, and for once, John didn’t back off but tightened his grip around Rog’s back and Brian’s arm.

He fell asleep with the cruel realisation, that whatever was happening, was _indeed_ happening because unlike other nightmares, he knew this one wouldn’t be over when he’d open his eyes again.

That night in his dream, he saw the day that had turned his life around as clearly as though it were only yesterday. He had been barely 19 - only three years older than his Robert was now. It had been the time where his still-brown hair had reached down to his collarbones and his anxiety up into the sky.

_Keeping his head down, he wandered the streets of London, the flares of his trousers flapping in the wind. When he reached the house (a shabby brick building on the campus), he checked the number of the rehearsal room once, twice, thrice, put down his bass case, flung it over his shoulder again, brushed his shaggy hair from his face, questioned all his previous life choices, considered just walking down the road towards the bus stop again, get some fish’n’chips and pretend this afternoon hadn’t happened –or better yet, skip the chips and just jump right in front of the double decker._

_It wasn’t that he was unsure about his abilities. He was John Richard Deacon and if he was one thing, he knew he was fucking groovy on the bass._

_Dylan, who had shared a flat with him, had only looked at him incredulously when he’d told him about the audition. Some band called Queen was looking for a bassist and he had seized the opportunity to pocket that piece of paper that curly head had used to write down the location of their rehearsal space before John’s anxiety would get the best of him and make him turn around on the spot and storm right out of that bleeding disco._

_Dylan had only snorted when he’d showed him the thing._

_“You’re not seriously thinking about this. I’ve seen them live once when they still called themselves Smile. To be frank, they’re not half bad…but if you ask me, those blokes are a bunch of bleeding poofs. Make-up, high-heeled boots, glittery clothing! Honestly, John, you don’t wanna be a part of that, do you?” his ex-roommate had asked him with a sneer. Notice the emphasis on_ ex _._

_“I’d never have taken you for a nancy” Dylan had said as he had looked at him lairily over his bowl of Weetabix that morning._

_“Well, I’d never have taken you for a twat, but here we are,” John had said coolly, leaving for the bedroom to pack his stuff._

_John still had no clue where he was going to live now. Truth be told, John didn’t really think he was all that much into guys but he wasn’t into the idea of having an arsehole for a roommate, either, so that was that._

_He was still standing in front of the door when a second floor window opened and a blonde head appeared up above him._

_“You gonna stand here all day, mate?” he asked with a grin before closing the window again._

_John sighed. Now he’d have no chance but to go through with it. After one last longing glance down the road towards the chippy, he made his way upstairs._

_By the time he reached the second floor, he was panting and clutching a hand to his chest. God, he was grateful to be studying engineering; he didn’t know what he’d be doing if he his future job were to involve physical activity and jumping around!_

_Window-lad was leaning in the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching him struggle the last few steps upstairs and John had to bite back some dry remark at the sight._

_Instead, he straightened his back and couldn’t help feeling a little smug as he realised that Blondie was positively tiny and that –with the help of his trusty platform boots- John came to tower several inches above him. Blondie seemed to have noticed, too, seeing as he started scowling up at him._

_“Roger Taylor,” Window-lad introduced himself and extended his right hand. It was also tiny but sturdy and covered in blisters and callouses, although the fingertips weren’t severed. His wrists were muscled and his handshake sure and bold –drummer hands, John concluded._

_Come to think of it, John had definitely heard that peculiar high-pitched voice before! He’d met him at that disco when his mate with the curls had complained to John about their group missing a bassist._

_“John Deacon,” he replied awkwardly, still thinking about the deliciously fatty chips and crunchily-coated cod._

_The supposed drummer spun around and gestured at him to follow him into the rehearsal space. John almost choked on his own spit as he entered. Never in his life had he seen anything as tacky as this place. There were colourful pieces of fabric hanging on the walls and the few parts of the walls that weren’t covered by those, were adorned by some yellow abomination that should be illegal to sell as a wallpaper. There were art prints in mismatching frames (or no frames at all) and several calendars (one of which –John had to check twice- claimed it was the year of 1965).When he looked down to his feet, he could see a rug that had the same pattern as his Granny’s cozzie._

_There was a table made of pink plastic and the chairs looked like they had been found at the rubbish dump; one of them seemed to be an old deckchair and contained a human matchstick man who looked like he had a dark poodle sitting atop his head and who had to fold his impossibly long legs in an uncomfortable-looking way to fit them all in his lap, where he was also balancing a bright red guitar. Ah, that was him!_

_John let out a snort. Those people and their place looked positively bonkers!_

_“Roger!” a peculiar voice screeched and John followed it with his eyes towards the piano. An exotic-looking young man with tan skin and prominent cheekbones was sat there. The boy looked like a caricature of an artist with his flashing clothing and his full head of shiny, long hair. “Did you drag that one up at some college? You know, we weren’t exactly looking for a sixth-former with a curfew…”_

_John clutched his bass case defensively and sent one of his infamous killer stares in piano bloke’s direction. When he watched him more closely, however, he could see a twinkling in the lad’s eye that made it impossible to be even slightly narked. Good Lord, what had he gotten himself into?!_

_“Fred!” giant poodle boy chastised but his voice was way too calm and mellow to actually sound admonishing. He put his guitar on the floor next to his deck chair with an impossible amount of reverence and care, and made his way over to John._

_“Hello, I’m Brian May. Pleased to meet you, how’d you do?” he said with a small smile as he shook John’s hand. John could only mutter his name – he didn’t do small talk stuff all too well._

_Brian didn’t seem to care and simply went on._

_“Don’t mind Fred, that’s just how he is,” he said, chuckling. (“Hey!” Fred cried indignantly and came plodded over towards them.)_

_“Freddie Bulsara,” the guy said with a little bow and gestured to the two young men in the corner, whom John had failed to notice until now, who were putting their instruments back inside their cases, looking positively defeated. “I do hope you’re better than the other boys, darling”_

_“Fred!” Brian scolded again._

_“Oh, I don’t mean it like_ that _, darling!” Freddie giggled and John could feel his cheeks heat up._

_“Still!” Brian cried. “That wasn’t very nice. Trevor, William, he’s terribly sorry, aren’t you, Fred?”_

_(Freddie shrugged and mouthed something along the lines of: “Yes, mother!”)_

_“John, would you like a cuppa?” Brian asked with a strained smile, sending Freddie a sideways glance that could mean nothing but:_ Behave yourself, for God’s sake!

_“Well, he’s not here to drink some tea, is he? We’re not the Ritz!” he could feel a friendly slap on his arm and then there was an arm in a black floral jacket coming to rest around his shoulders. John had to refrain from stepping back and looked to his left. Obviously, Roger had returned from the little fridge in the corner, now nursing a pint of Guinness._

_“Rog, we’re skint and this is the last beer we’ve got! Do you really…!” Brian started again. “Besides, it’s two in the bloody afternoon! Why the hell are you even drinking?”_

_Roger shrugged: “Well, it’s open now, already, innit?”_

_If John hadn’t been so nervous, he’d have chuckled out loud. The longer he listened to these guys, the more he felt like he was witnessing a single mum argue with her teenagers._

_“Now then!” Freddie announced with his charismatic voice and a clap of his hands whilst Brian grabbed his guitar and Roger put down the beer bottle. “Show us what you got! Let’s get started!”_

_There was the sound of the door falling shut and John startled. Trevor and William had left and he was alone with this band of lunatics._

_Later on, John remembered how clueless he’d been when he’d plugged in his bass that afternoon, how unprepared he’d been for the feeling of belonging that had overcome the four of them when they’d filled the room with sound for the first time – like pieces of a puzzle slowly falling into place._

When John woke up, they’d somehow managed to get inside. They were lying on the floor of his study, inches away from where his bass was gathering dust. His heart ached at the sight. The last time he’d let his fingers dance across the strings, the four of them had been at Freddie’s for the last time. Next to him, Roger’s eyes fluttered open. John wondered where the drummer’s glasses had ended up. They were both curled to either side of Brian who slept in an upright position against the desk and would surely end up with a sore back. Roger blinked, slowly, his mouth pressed into a firm, straight line and his eyes red-rimmed and empty. For a moment they just looked at each other, their heads lifted and lowered by Brian’s irregular breaths, asking themselves and each other silently how they’d ever fix this mess that was their lives.

Roger turned his head and let out a small noise that reminded John of the injured kitten Brian and Freddie had brought to their flat twenty years ago. He so desperately wanted to do something, to reach out and catch Roger’s wrist, drag his hands from his head where they had started to pull on the blond locks again. But he couldn’t. John had never been good at reaching out and he feared he might do more harm than actually help the other man.

The first sun rays were shining through the window, announcing a new day, and John wondered just how on earth that was possible. How a new day could dawn, how there could be a 25th of November after the 24th, how the world could just keep on turning after the sun had already burnt out.

“Why’s it lying in the corner, Deacy?”

He could hear the mellow voice vibrate in the narrow chest beneath his chin. The mellow voice he’d so often provoked to turn into bitchier tones, the mellow voice that had welcomed him on that fateful day he’d met three impossible boys in a tacky rehearsal space and on every day following one of their copious fights thereafter.

“Hmm?” he asked, unable to utter much more.

“Why’d you just let it gather dust like that?” Brian asked, nodding towards the bass next to them, and John could’ve sworn his voice sounded just a little accusatory.

(Why did he always have to start nagging?)

“Why shouldn’t I?” he shot back, lifting his head in a jerky motion, glaring up at the curly head. His voice was hoarse and he had to clear his throat before he was able to spit out his next sentence. “You should better ask yourself why your guitar _isn’t_ stored away!”

He could see Brian’s tired eyes widen instantly. He knew what was coming; it might not have been healthy but the two of them had always been each other’s verbal punching bags.

“How else am I supposed to…to…” Brian snapped and John tried his best to ignore the other man’s voice thinning out near the end.“

“How can you even think about touching the strings without his singing to accompany you? It’s Queen or nothing! That’s what we always used to say! But I s’ppose you wouldn’t remember…”

“Are you saying I’m disloyal for taking out my fucking guitar –?“

There was a loud sob, followed by an ear-shattering shout.

“STOP!”

 Roger was glaring at them furiously, tears glistening in his eyes again, his hands curled into fists on the floor where he was kneeling. John and Brian looked at each other guiltily, before turning to face the blond, who was shaking with rage.

“Don’t you see what you’re doing!” he screamed at them, his high voice breaking and his bottom lip trembling dangerously. “You don’t get it, do you? We can’t do that! We…we’re all that’s left!”

He shook his head, utter lack of understanding painted on his face. Then he just let himself fall down onto the floor, drew his knees up and hid his face there.

John could almost believe it was 1974 and Roger was screaming at Freddie and him for bickering whilst Brian was unconscious and being wheeled back from the operating theatre. But they weren’t slumped against the door of the Intensive Care Unit, Brian was very much awake and Freddie wasn’t…

Brian crawled over to where Roger was sitting, his jaw tense and his eyes wearing a pained expression. He rested his head atop Roger’s.

“Oh my God, Roger, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

“Say it to him, not to me!” Roger cried hysterically. John moved uncomfortably in the place he was sat. When he looked up, Brian’s eyes were on his, heavy with sincerity and sorrow.

“I didn’t mean it, Deacy. Forgive me,”

“I didn’t mean it, either,” he whispered back.

Roger beckoned him over with a teary-eyed glance and John found himself in the others’ tight embrace once again.

And as Roger began wetting his shirt with his tears again, he couldn’t help but wonder how long they’d manage without their trusty meridian who had kept them together for so long.

***

Roger felt as though somebody had turned his life on standby mode and he was watching from the outside. He watched as John’s children left for school, he watched as Veronica prepared breakfast, he watched as Brian got up and told them he’d take a shower upstairs.

His brain couldn’t compute how the others could _do_ stuff. Where was their standby mode? It almost made him angry to see John doing Joshua’s tie and helping him into the jacket of his uniform, and he started balling his hands into fists when he watched Brian running a brush through his wet hair, kneading lashings of conditioner into his curls as though his life depended on it. How could they muster the strength?

None of them shared a word with the others as the morning progressed and Roger could do nothing but sit on the floor of Deacy’s study –still in yesterday’s things and unshaven- and blink away the tears that were constantly pooling underneath his eyes. His vision was blurry –and not just the one of the room.

When breakfast was ready, Veronica tried to coax them into eating something and as much as he wanted to thank her, no sound escaped his lips.

“Here you are, boys,” she said, desperately trying to get a reaction out of them, as she placed three steaming cups of tea on the table. “No sugar and a splash of milk for you, Brian, three sugars and lots of milk for Roger and plain black tea for you, Johnnie, sweetheart”

Roger stared into his milky brew, watching it swap from one side of the cup to the other as he swirled a spoon around.

“Look, I’ve made you lot a full Cornish. I hope the potato cakes are all right, Roger…” she said, giving him a small smile.

He appreciated the gesture. It really did look like home. How he wished he were running down the streets of Truro with his childhood friends, not a single worry to cloud the sky.

He took his fork and knife and started cutting up his tomatoes. He could still feel Ronnie’s querying eyes on him, so he picked up a forkful of the potato cake and swallowed hard.

“Great, just like my Mum’s” he whispered. Veronica looked relieved and he felt bad for her; she only wanted to make them feel better, what else was there for her to do?

“And you can have some porridge if you want, Brian. I know how much you like it,” she said, placing a big bowl in front of Brian and passing a hand through his curls. “Honey’s on the table if you need any.”

“Ronnie, you shouldn’t have…,” Brian said, looking at the bowl in horror, but Veronica had already gone back into the kitchen.

As Brian moved his porridge from one side to the other, clearly looking as though he wasn’t planning to eat much of it, Roger glanced down the older man’s left hand that clutched the spoon. New bandages adorned his wrist and Roger froze instantly at the thought of Brian standing in the bathroom earlier this morning, gazing at his own wrist and…

“Whatcha staring at, Rog?” Brian asked, lifting his empty hazel eyes upwards the tiniest bit.

Roger lowered his head and grabbed his cuppa. God, what were they doing?

They were sitting in silence, the only sound being the ticking of the clock up on the wall. The sun was shining now and the garden could have looked properly heavenly, if only…

Deacy looked at him from across the table, his eyes lingering on his, before wandering lower.

“Isn’t that mine?” he asked, pointing to the grotty, old jumper with Tom Baker and Elisabeth Sladen’s faces on it. “Haven’t seen that in years,”

Roger looked down. There had been a time when the borders of property had been blurry between them. John’s jumper had also been his. His comic books had also been Brian’s. His favourite floral jacket had originally belonged to…Roger cleared his throat.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, looking up. “D’you want it back?”

Deacy shook his head, the right corner of his mouth moving up ever so slightly.

“Please, keep it, we never really used to bother with who owned what anyways,”

 Roger looked at the torn men sitting across from him and thought that if he really had to go through this hell, he wouldn’t have wanted to go through it with anybody else.

***

Brian was lying on the sofa in Anita’s lap.

“It’s gotten dark outside,” she said, fondling his curls.

“Is the sky clear, tonight?” he asked with a small voice. He should have picked up the kids after school today, he’d promised to take them to the London Planetarium. He started trembling at the thought, remorse tugging at his heartstrings. As though he hadn’t done enough harm to them already!

“Shush, darling,” Anita soothed, tracing his furrowed brows with her delicate fingers in an attempt to even out the wrinkles. “I’ve phoned Chrissie. They saw it on the telly earlier today, they understand,”

Brian felt himself shrink back at the mention of his ex. Then, realisation dawned and he propped himself up on his arms.

“They know?” he asked, voice flat.

“Everyone knows, Bri,” Anita said, cupping his cheek and looking at him with sympathy in her kind eyes.

“They’re too small, they shouldn’t - I should’ve told them myself. They shouldn’t…not from the telly!” He raked his hands through his curls hopelessly, the forlorn feeling in his chest settling deeper.

“Oh love,” she uttered as she pulled him closer and his tears came cascading onto her nightie.

He thought of the black suit that was already hanging on the door of his wardrobe. He’d be wearing it in two days’ time. Two days. How long even was that? The last two days had been the longest in his entire life.

“Come on, love,” Anita said, pulling him to his feet and guiding him into their bedroom and out onto the balcony.  She sat down on the tiles and patted the floor next to her. “Come sit with me,”

She draped a blanket around both their shoulders and he nestled into the warmth he didn’t know he had craved.

Instinctively, his eyes wandered up to starry firmament above. It was unusually clear that night and if he squinted, he could make out dozens of constellations. Cassiopeia was still shining up above them but today he didn’t spare her a second glance, searching the sky for a certain inferior planet with the naked eye. It was one of the hardest to spot because it was so close to the sun but eventually his trained eyes found it and he fixed his gaze on the object, barely blinking in fear of losing sight of it again. He could feel a single teardrop slide down his cheek and chin as he watched it. It was there. _He_ was there. It was all that mattered, really.

He could feel Anita’s eyes on him, looking at him sideways and then there were soft lips kissing the tear away just as it reached the collar of his shirt.

“What are you looking at, love?”

“Mercury” he said, never once letting his eyes lose what had always been the brightest object in the sky to him.

When he woke up, two days later, he knew it was going to be one his _bad_ days as soon as he opened his eyes. He couldn’t will himself to move a single muscle, wishing he could lie here for all eternity. Anita had to have woken up because she cradled him in her arms like a child, patting his hair and singing softly.

Why couldn’t he just be a normal, functioning human being?

“I can’t do this, Anita,” he sobbed. “I can’t…”

“I’ll be with you, Roger and John will be with you. You don’t have to do this alone,” she lulled him.

“No, I mean I can’t _do_ this,” he whispered, not knowing how to explain whatever it was that was slowly but surely eating him alive.

Anita kissed his closed eyes, like butterflies landing atop his eyelids but he felt as though the butterflies existed in a parallel universe far away where he’d never be able to reach them.

 “It’s seven o’clock, I’m going to get your medicine, love,” she said, climbing out of bed. The loss of her arms around him left him feeling cold and he started shivering in his thick flannel pyjama, underneath the winter blankets.

“No, please don’t leave!” he cried out. She was back in an instant, hovering over his face and caressing his cheek.

“I won’t,” she said with the most sincere expression in her eyes. “I’m just going to the bathroom to get your medicine. I’ll be back in a second,”

Then she was gone and he could hear her plodding over into the bathroom, opening the cabinet, looking for his bottle of Prozac. It felt horrible to know how much of a bother he had to be to her. There was the sound of the tap being turned on, a glass being filled with water. He hated himself for it –for having dragged her into that terrible affair, for having exposed his darling Anita to the public like that, and not even being able give her a proper life. She deserved so much better!

“Here you are, sweetheart,” she said, holding out the green-and-yellow pill and a glass of water.

He shook his head, unable to move his body into a sitting position. He could make out the sound of the glass meeting the wooden bedside table and then there were soft hands coaxing him gently into sitting upright.

“There you go,” she said, smiling at him and pecking the tip of his nose. “Now please take your medicine,”

He swallowed the pill dry, washing it down with the water. Anita looked at him from where she was kneeling in front of the bed. He reached out to place his hand in her permed locks.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, putting all the sincerity he possessed in his voice. “You deserve so much more than this. I’m sorry I’m always such a burden.”

A pained expression clouded her face and he whimpered at the realisation that he seemed to have hurt her yet again.

“You’re not a burden, sweetheart,” she said, cupping his cheek and looking at him with silent tears streaming from her eyes. “You hear me, Bri? You’re not a burden. I love you with all my heart!”

He couldn’t quite believe her words and hated himself for it. When he looked into her big eyes, he was filled with a surge of love for her that made him cling to her hands.

“Let’s lie down for a bit longer,” she said, settling on the pillow next to him. “There’s still time”

The last thing he saw before he let the medicine-induced drowsiness wash over him, were his black trousers and coat, making it impossible to forget what day it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this. Please do comment! You don't know how much I appreciate it.  
> Thanks to everyone who left a comment, kudo or bookmark on the first chapter, it means the world to me!
> 
> (Also, congrats for sticking with me and this rubbish for chapter 2. I'll do my very best to update more quickly when everything has settled a bit)
> 
> Love you, folks!  
> Cheersxxx

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me how you liked it. I always enjoy hearing what people think of my writing, so comments are always welcome! Please be kind, this is the first of my fics I've ever published.  
> This is unbeta'd, sorry for any possible typos or mistakes :)


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